


secret home i made and found

by crackthesky



Series: secret home i made and found [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (of a type), Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23290324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackthesky/pseuds/crackthesky
Summary: winter is a season of quiet interludes, of days spent tucked into bed or sprawled by the fire, and you can never spend enough of them with Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Series: secret home i made and found [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674910
Comments: 7
Kudos: 83





	secret home i made and found

“Does the silver require more care?”

Geralt’s hand slows. A shame, really, since the slow stroke of the rag across the flat of his blade makes his forearm bunch appealingly. His blunt fingers gleam with oil; it catches the firelight, outlines the curve of his knucklebones, the thick wedge of them a mountain range. He’s done his best to not touch you or the furs draped over you. You’ve made it difficult, furling around him like a fiddlehead. 

The morning had dawned cold and bleak. Geralt had simply nodded when you’d told him that it tasted like the first breath of a blizzard, all bitter, thick air that nipped with icy little teeth. You’d fed the fire well, until the fingers of it leapt high in the hearth, and had coaxed him back to bed. The blizzard had howled into life just as you sobbed out Geralt’s name, your nails like pinpricks of hail against the skin of his back, your cry as furious as the winter winds, cracking out of you like ice splitting on the lake. You’d dozed as the snow spat white across the windowpane, and Geralt - as always - had found a quiet task that did not require him to go far. Even still, the expanse of the bed had felt like a sea between the two of you, and you had crept closer to lay near where he sat.

“I would think so,” you continue, undaunted by his silence. Quiet does not mean inattention, not with Geralt. “Such a soft metal, silver.”

 _Silver is for monsters_ , he tells you once, and you think of the filigree of a noblewoman’s necklace, the metal dripping dainty over the curve of a collarbone like moonlight streaking across snowy hills, and you do not say: _in more ways than one_.

“Not that soft,” Geralt says.

You breathe a laugh, the sound barely audible over the roar of the fire. “True,” you say, shifting closer so that you can walk two of your fingers up his brawny thigh. He pulls in a quiet breath. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

Geralt glances down at you. In the long winter, his eyes are your favorite source of sunlight, the golden glow of them bringing midsummer back to you. “Yes,” he says. “It does. Come here and learn, if you’re going to badger me.”

You consider him. It’s warm beneath the furs even in your thin shift, and you’re comfortable, but you know what swords mean to men like him. You unspool yourself from around him and sit up, pausing to press a kiss against the nape of his neck. 

“Take that,” Geralt says, nodding towards his broadsword, propped carefully against the bedpost. 

“That’s steel, not silver.”

“The silver takes more care, as you said.”

You raise a brow. “I was asking about the silver.”

“Steel first.”

 _Oh_ , you think, because it’s rare these days that Geralt misses details about you. You’d have thought he’d have picked up the scent of the waterstone on your skin, the sharp tang of stone and water muddied into one. 

“Fine,” you tell him, slipping to the edge of the bed and settling next to him. He tilts his silver sword just enough, tips the keen blade further from you. 

The broadsword is heavier than most you’ve held. It makes sense, you suppose, considering what Geralt hunts and his own relentless strength. You trace your finger over the deep groove of the maker’s mark. It’s not one you know. 

You hum to yourself as you wrap your hand around the ricasso, ignoring the way Geralt stiffens despite the unsharpened edge. The idea of the Witcher being as skittish as newborn foal delights you, but you are wary of scaring him. He’s lost enough, you think. 

The firelight gleams like sunset against the steel as you tip the debole down, letting your eyes skate across the blade. You note the nicks and scratches scattered like scars and store them for later. Such tiny things, those little nicks, and yet they hold such great threat, wrap poisonous around the promise of rust, should they be fed blood. And though it pains him, you know that Geralt’s sword is well-fed.

You shift the blade from side to side, letting the pommel roll against your palm. Once you’re satisfied, you spin the blade to examine the other side, stroking your palm down the flat of it. You can feel Geralt’s gaze on you. Your lips quirk, and the weight of his gaze changes, goes heavy with intent. He has long loved to tease a smirk off your lips with his tongue.

There’s an extra rag tucked into the small bag you’ve seen him store his gear in. You reach for it and scoop up the small tub of beeswax, cupping it in your palm to let your body heat start to soften the wax. It’ll do to fill the gaps for now. You set the broadsword down carefully, and finally turn to face Geralt. Those amber eyes are a bonfire, sparking low and hot, and you swallow.

“You know how to work a sword.”

“In more ways than one,” you tease.

Geralt grunts. 

“I did tell you I was asking about the silver, not the steel,” you say, unable to stop the flicker of laughter lining your voice. 

“You did, armorer’s daughter.”

“What gave me away?”

“The way you spun it.”

“Go wash,” you say softly, for his eyes are forge-hot, all molten intent, but the sword oil still gleams upon his fingers. “I will be here when you come back.”

Geralt crowds forward to catch you in a kiss. It’s oddly soft despite the heat of him, and your eyes fall shut. “You always are,” he breathes against your lips. 

The ache strikes deep and true, like a spade splitting through the winter frost to get to the tender soil beneath. 

Geralt presses you into another kiss, soft and deep and drifting, a delicate flurry of snow preceding the winter storm. He pulls back with a muttered curse.

“Go,” you tell him, and he does.

You get to your feet, the floorboards fingers of ice against your bare skin, and pick up the broadsword’s sheath. It’s an old one, worn but well preserved. You slide the blade home and pause as you spot a newer strip of leather, carefully stitched in place near the sheath’s mouth, a raised edge just barely seen. Embossed, you think, and you cannot help but turn the blade to peek.

The smile blooms over your face like a sunrise.

You brush your finger over the embossed witch-hazel flower.

You store the sword near Geralt’s packs carefully, and then you wait for your Witcher to come back to you.

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a series now? this is a series now.
> 
> i am Soft™️ in these trying times, my friends. and i must indulge myself. right now 'indulging' is absolutely lil snippets of lives already intwined so! here we are. y'all should see my dumb disaster prompts list, it's basically just my brain on a page.
> 
> title is from zola jesus' 'skin'
> 
> are waterstones japanese? yup. am i using them here anyway because everything we know about medieval sword care tends to be a bit unreliable (or at least everything i found)? yup.


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